Alas, poor shepherd, searching of thy wound
Alas, poor shepherd, searching of thy wound,
I have by hard adventure found mine own.
And I mine. I remember when I was in
love I broke my sword upon a stone and bid him
take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I
remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow’s
dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked;
and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of
her, from whom I took two cods and, giving her
them again, said with weeping tears “Wear these for
my sake.” We that are true lovers run into strange
capers. But as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature
in love mortal in folly.
Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of.
Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own
wit till I break my shins against it.
Jove, Jove! This shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.
And mine, but it grows something stale